


Veni, Vidi, Vici (I came, I saw, I conquered)

by StarKnightStark



Series: Steve Rogers, Deadly Assassin [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), John Wick (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - John Wick (Setting), Assassin!Steve, John Wick AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2020-11-15 10:37:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20864825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarKnightStark/pseuds/StarKnightStark
Summary: Steve Rogers is an elite assassin, called the Captain. When mobster John Garrett’s son, Grant Ward, steals Steve’s car and kills his dog, Steve goes on a rampage of vengeance.The John Wick AU no one asked for.ON INDEFINITE HIATUS





	1. Chapter 1

_ Beep _

_ Beep _

_ Beep _

Steve rolled out of bed and slapped the clock. The horrendous noise stopped. He sat up, head in his hands. It had only been a few weeks since Peggy died, and the funeral was today. He got dressed, and welcomed the first guests.

The day passed in a blur. People apologized to him, offered their condolences, but he heard none of it. Eventually, the last guest left. Steve dragged himself to his room, and collapsed on his bed. However, before he could drift off to sleep, there was a knock at the door.

Steve opened the door. A woman stood there, a pet carrier in her hand. She looked at a piece of paper.

“Mr. Rogers? My name is Kate Bishop, I have a package for you. Just sign here.”

Steve took the paper and offered pen, and signed. The woman handed him the pet carrier, then turned to leave before she abruptly whirled around, jogging back up to the door and handing him a letter.

“Sorry, I forgot this. It came with the carrier.”

“...thank you, Ms. Bishop.”

“No problem!”

Steve closed the door and took the pet carrier inside. He opened it, and small dog sniffed its way out. Steve panicked. He didn’t have any food, or a dog bed. He poured the dog some cereal in the interim, and settled down to read the letter.

_Steve,_

_I’m sorry I can’t be there for you. This illness has loomed over us for sometime, but you still need someone, something to love. So start with this. Because the car doesn’t count. I love you, Steve. I’ve found my peace, I hope you can find yours._

_Your best friend ‘til the end of the line,_

_Peggy_

Halfway through, Steve began to cry, fat tears discolouring the paper. He smiled through sadness, because even in the grave, his wife knew him better than he did himself.

He went to bed, the dog jumping up beside him.

“We’ll get you some chow in the morning, okay?”

<><><>

Steve woke to a tongue slobbering his face. He ineffectually tried to bat the offending item away.

“Alright, alright. I’m up.”

Seconds later, his alarm went.

Steve got dressed, got himself and the dog some cereal, then grabbed his keys and got in the car, the dog jumping up beside him.

Steve sped out of the driveway, doing a fishtail onto the road. The day was bright and sunny, the wind whipping the dog’s ears. They pulled up to a gas station. Steve went inside to grab some dog food, and when he came out, a dark-haired youth was running his fingers along the hood.

“Hey!”

The kid looked up. 

“Sorry, sorry. It’s a beautiful car. Ford Mustang. ‘68?”

Steve relaxed. “‘69, actually. Boss 429, 7L engine.”

The kid whistled. “How much?”

Steve paused. “Pardon?”

“How much for the car?”

“It’s not for sale.”

“Bullshit. How much?”

“Not. For. Sale,” Steve ground out.

He climbed in the car and revved the engine.

The kid shouted after him. “I’ll get it anyways, fucker!”

Steve flicked down his sunglasses and drove off.

<><><>

That night, Steve woke to a crash. He stumbled downstairs, only to see the kid from earlier trashing the place. Steve rushed him.

Suddenly, an arm appeared in front of him, socking him straight in the stomach. Steve keeled over, unable to breathe. The dog rushed downstairs, leaping at the man who’d punched him, and took a boot for the trouble. The man reached down and snapped the dog’s neck. He began to move towards Steve, but the kid stopped him.

“He’s fucked, leave him, but grab the car!”

They left soon after. Steve heard the car (HIS car), start, and peel out of the driveway. Steve managed to drag himself over to his dog, but the darkness at the edges of his vision overwhelmed him, and all went black.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve buried the dog behind his house, in a small grave, marked only by a large stone. He sat silent for a second, before getting up and going in to the house. Inside the bathroom, Steve strips, stepping into the shower. He unfolds a razor, pauses for a second, then begins to shave. 

Some time later, Steve steps out of the house, dressed in a military uniform, old, but clean and freshly pressed.

He flags a bus, and sits in it, face blank, a thermos of coffee in his hands. 

<><><>

Bucky wiped his hands on an oilcloth as the garage door opened and Steve’s Mustang rolled in. He began to smile before the doors opened and Grant Ward stepped out.

Ward was laughing with his friends. “I’m definitely keeping this one! Hey, where’s Bar-“ 

He broke off when he saw Bucky walking towards them.

“Barnes! Think you can fix this up for me?”

Bucky’s voice was ice-cold. “Where did you get this?”

Ward smiled. “I got it my ways Barnes, what do you think? Now it’s hot so I want a paint job, pape-“

“I said, where did you get this?”

“I don’t know, some old fucker. Why do you care?”

“I know this car.”

Bucky reached behind the driver’s side, and pulled out the registration. The ownership had a single name: Steve Rogers. “Bohze Moi...”

Ward was clearly confused. “What?”

“Out. Now.”

“What are you talking about?”

By now, everybody else in Barnes’ Body Shop had stopped to watch.

“I’m talking about taking the fucking car, and getting the fuck out of my shop.”

“Did you lose your mind, Barnes? We own you. You do what we say.”

“The hell I do.” Bucky gestured at the car. “Tell me, did you kill him?”

Ward laughed. “No, but I sure as hell fucked up his dog!”

Bucky’s fist slammed into Ward’s face. Ward dropped to a knee, cradling his nose. His friend pulled a gun. All around the garage, mechanics and workers reached for hidden weapons. Bucky glared at Ward’s friend.

“You’re pulling a gun? On me? In my own goddamn place?”

Bucky grabbed the pistol and pressed it against his forehead. “Go on, flick off the safety.”

The man did, smirking.

“Now pull back the hammer.” The man faltered.

“Now, either kill me, or FUCK OFF!”

Ward’s other friend pulled down the gun, and helped Ward to his feet. “The old man ain’t gonna like this.”

Bucky flipped him off. “Maybe not, but he’ll understand.”

<><><>

The bus pulled up, and Steve got off, making a beeline for Barnes’ Body Shop. The place was empty, everyone gone. Steve made his way to the back, seeing Bucky sitting at the back, two glasses and a bottle of gin on the table in front of him.

“Hello, Steve.”

“Hello, Buck.”

Bucky poured them both a drink. Steve knocked his back in one. Bucky sipped more slowly.

“You seen my car?”

“I have, but it’s not here.”

“Where is it?”

“You know if I refuse them, HYDRA takes it down to Rollins and his crew. You’ll find them on Third and Main.”

“Thank you.” Steve turned to leave. “Jerk.”

“Punk.”

<><><>

The bus pulls up to the curb, then away, leaving Steve behind. He crossed the street, heading towards the old building labeled “Rollins’ Automotive”. His gait is steady, face expressionless.

The two guards near the entrance straightened up. One raised a hand.

“Sir, I’m sorry, this is private prope-“

Without stopping, Steve reached into the guard’s vest, pulling the man’s gun out of it’s shoulder holster, and firing once into his chest. Pivoting, Steve put another through the face of the second guard. Steve started running, kicking open the facility’s door, shooting anything that moves, each target getting 2 bullets: one to the chest, and one to the head. Passing by a lift, Steve hits the button, lowering his Mustang to the floor.

As he exits the building, two mechanics are still running. One gets a bullet to the skull, while the other manages to bark out a few words into a phone.

“I DON’T KNOW WHO HE IS! HE JUST SHOWED UP AND STARTED SHOOTING!“

Steve raised his gun, then lowered it and went back inside. He started his Mustang, then rammed the garage doors, pulling a 180 onto the road. A trio of vans peeled out after him. Steve sees them in the mirror, spins the car to face them, and punches the gas.

The tires struggle for purchase, find it, and leap forward. Steve raises his pistol, firing 4 times as he and the vans play a game of chicken. 2 of them veer off, crashing on the side of the road. The last one barrels towards him, the driver screaming. Steve’s face never changes.

At the last second, the driver yanks the wheel, and the van tips on its side, skidding for some distance before grinding to a halt. It’s gas tank ruptures, fuel spilling out, creating a puddle around the vehicle. Steve walks over, and peers down at the driver.

“Where can I find Grant Ward?”

The driver shifts nervously. “I dunno! I’m just a driver!”

Steve flicks on a lighter.

“Ok, ok! Don’t! Please! Grant! His father owns a club! The Clairvoyant! In Manhattan!”

Steve turned off the lighter. “Thanks.” He walked away.

The driver slumped. “Fuck.”


	3. Chapter 3

Bucky carefully constructed a house of cards, a tumbler of whiskey at his elbow. He held his breath, gently placing a queen of hearts at the very top.

The phone rang, a shrill sound. Bucky jumped, his tower collapsing as his knuckles brushed it.

“Fuck!”

He picked up the landline. “Barnes’ Body Shop, Barnes speaking.”

The voice at the other end was genial, but John Garrett was not so in person.

“I hear you struck my son.”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“Might I ask why?”

Bucky took a deep breath. “Because he ah, stole Steve Rogers’ car.”

There was a short silence on the other end, and then: “Oh.”

“And, uh, Garrett sir? He, um, fucked up his dog.”

“...I see.” There was a pause. “Good evening, James.”

The line went dead. Bucky wiped his forehead, then let out a laugh, swallowing what remained of his whiskey.

<><><>

Three grey SUVs pulled up in front of a large townhouse. Grant Ward exited, laughing and jockeying with his friends.

Inside, John Garrett poured himself a double shot of vodka and slammed it back, then poured another. 

Ward entered, closing the door behind him, a smirk on his face. “Pour me some, right?”

“Right.” Without warning, Garrett’s fist slammed into Ward’s stomach. He keeled over, vomiting. Garrett tossed him a towel.

“Clean that up.” Ward looked like was going to argue, but thought better of it. Garrett ran a hand through his thinning hair.

“You should know by now, that I have one rule. Should somebody snap at your fingers, crush them beneath you.”

“What’d I do?”

“You fucked up.”

“I- I don’t know what y-“

The sound of the backhand echoed around the room.

“Yes, you do.”

Ward hesitated. “So I stole a fucking car! So what?”

Garrett smiled, then punched Ward in the stomach again, as Ward fell to the ground, gasping. Garrett produced a switchblade and pressed it below Ward’s eye.

“Use that tone with me again, and I’ll serve you your eye in a fucking martini! Am I understood?”

Ward managed to nod. Garrett stood, putting away the switchblade.

“It is not what you did that draws my ire, Grant. It’s who you did it too.”

“What?” Ward scoffed. “The old man?”

“His name is Steve Rogers, and when he was 15, he lied his way into the special forces, and headed off to Iran. He specialized in crossing enemy lines to gather info and fuck with them anyway he saw fit.”

Garrett paused. “He took over 400 lives there, most with a gun or small caliber weapons. It got to him though. Every military distinction, but he couldn’t stop his teammate, a Lieutenant Wilson, from dying. Eventually he was discharged with full honours, and found himself here, looking for work.”

“...what kind of work?”

“What kind do you think? Steve was the goddamned boogeyman; give him a name and a method, and he’d get it done. By God, he’d get it done.”

Garrett leaned tiredly against the fireplace. “Then, one day, he fell in love. He left the game, spent time with her, then had to watch the love of his life die. So he deserved to spend the rest of his days, in peace.”

“Instead,” he growled, “you went and stole his car. And killed his fucking dog.”

Comprehension dawned on Ward’s face. Following it was an expression of horror. Garrett walked to the door.

“Until I say otherwise, you are now on house arrest. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

<><><>

Steve opens the door to the subbasement, and slowly walks down the steps. He picks up a sledgehammer from the wall, takes a deep breath. The sledgehammer comes crashing down with incredible force, crashing against the concrete. It cracks. The hammer goes up, then comes down again, over and over, each blow shaking the foundations of the house.

Eventually, he casts the sledgehammer aside, and sifts through the rubble, revealing a iron trapdoor. He grasps the handle, and heaves it up. Beneath, a ladder extends down into a narrow space. Steve clambered down, making his way through the hallway below his basement, passing black case after black case. Finally, he comes to the end. Steve selects a black case, indistinguishable from the tens of others.

Back in the house, he undoes the clasps, and lifts the lid. Inside lies a tactical assault rifle, a Glock 17 semi-auto pistol, ammunition, and 50 golden coins, with a C on one side, and a crown on the other. He picks up the pistol, testing it’s weight, before screwing on a suppressor and loading a clip with deft movements.

<><><>

Steve sat at his kitchen table, cleaning and oiling his tac AR, lovingly making sure every piece gleams. The rifle is StarkTech, one of the best money can buy, and Steve is glad he got it instead of a Hammer product.

Outside, four men pull on black masks, checking their weapons with professional efficiency. The leader gestures at the house, and they move in, fanning out like they’ve done this a thousand times. They’re confident, sure of their victory. They shouldn’t be.

The lead man enters the hallway, only to take two bullets to the chest, and one to the head. As he goes down, Steve leaps over the stairwell bannister, putting metal in the brains of two others. Only one man remains, cowering in the kitchen, regrettinga lot of his life choices. The stove light casts his shadow into the hall. A rookie mistake. A fatal mistake. Steve pivots, empties the rest of his clip into the wall, hearing a strangled shout, then silence.

Said silence is broken by a knock at the door. Steve peers through the peephole, hesitates, then stuffs the pistol in the back of his pants and opens the door. There’s an awkward pause. The policeman speaks first.

“Evening, Steve.”

“Evening, Lance.”

Officer Lance Hunter, NYPD, cranes his head to see around the door. Steve follows his gaze, seeing that one of the bodies is in direct view. Lance focussed back on Steve.

“You, ah, you working again, Steve?”

“No, just, um, sorting some things out.”

“Right. Well, you do that best you can. I’ll try to cover your ass here.”

“Thanks.”

“Goodnight, Steve.”

“Goodnight, Lance.”

<><><>

Steve rolls each of the gunmen up in plastic sheeting, leaving them by the back door. He picks up his phone, dialling a number he knew by heart.

“This is Rogers. Yes, that’s right, Steve Rogers. I know, it’s been awhile. I’d like to make a registration for four. Ten ‘o clock? That’s perfect, Thank you.” 

He hung up, and began to cover up the bullet holes with fresh wallpaper.

A couple hours later, there’s a knock at the back door. Steve opens it to reveal a bald, glasses-clad man.

They shook hands.

“Good to see you, Steve.”

“You too, Sitwell.”

Sitwell entered, followed by two goons, one of whom began to mop the floor, while the other carried the plastic-wrapped bodies into a waiting van.

Sitwell and Steve watched them work for a bit, before Sitwell spoke up.

“I’m sorry to hear about Peggy, Steve. She always was kind to me.”

He paused. “So, whatcha been doing to pass the time?”

Steve smirked “Oh, I got myself a couple hobbies.”

Sitwell hesitated, then: “Tell me, Steve, are we back in the game now?”

“Sorry, Sitwell, no. I’m on my own nowadays.”

One of the goons approached. “We’re done, boss.”

Steve handed Sitwell 6 gold coins, then shook his hand.

“Be seein’ you, Steve.”

“Bye, Sitwell.”


	4. Chapter 4

John Garrett was making an omelet when the phone rang. He put down the spatula.

“This is Garrett.” There was a short pause. “Of course he did. Very well.” Garrett rubbed his brow. “Put the word out. Two million to the man who kills Steve Rogers. Three to the man who brings him in alive.”

There was a click as he hung up. He thought for a second, then dialled another number.

<><><>

Clint Barton, former assassin and sniper extraordinaire walked across his yard and threw the ball. His dog, a golden retriever named Lucky, bounded after it. The smile on his face faded when his phone rang.

“This is Barton.”

“ _Clint, this is John. It’s been a couple years._ ”

“Why yes, it has.”

“ _ How’s life? _ ”

“Life? Life... is good.”

“ _Good, good. I-Uh, I have a favour to ask you. One that pays well._ ”

Clint laughed, shaking his head. “As I keep telling all those -like you- that call, I’m retired!”

“_This, ah, involves a certain Captain._ ”

Clint paused mid-step. “Say again? Steve Rogers?” His words were suddenly clipped. “Consider it done.”

The line went dead. Clint knelt, ruffling Lucky’s fur. “Sorry, Pizza Dog, I’ve an old friend to attend to...”

<><><>

As Steve entered the train station with his luggage, he spotted Antoine Triplett manning a security checkpoint, and made a beeline straight to him. Trip gestured to him.

“Pockets, please.”

Steve emptied his pockets, putting his wallet, his phone, and two gold coins on the tray as Trip casually flicked off the X-ray machine, allowing Steve’s luggage to pass unimpeded.

Steve retrieved his items and walked off, tipping his hat as Trip turned the X-ray machine back on, pocketing the coins.

<><><>

Steve, carrying a bulky suitcase and a briefcase, entered the lobby of what appeared to be a posh, upscale hotel. The walls were dark wooden panelling, the floor polished marble, a stylized eagle engraved upon it.

The manager smiled at him as he approached the front desk.

“Welcome to the Triskelion, sir. What can I do for you today?”

“I called ahead. Um, reservation for Steve Rogers?”

The manger checked his computer, tapping a couple times before smiling the same bland smile again.

“Ah yes. I have you for two nights.”

Steve shifted. “Depending on business, it may be more.”

“That’s not a problem sir, we are only at 60% capacity. Let me know if you choose to extend your stay.”

Steve glanced around. “Y’know, I haven’t been here for years. When’d this place get a facelift?”

“About two years ago, sir.”

“Same owner?”

The manager nodded. “Same owner.”

Steve slid a coin across the desk. “She still singing?”

The manager pocketed it without a glance. “She is. Daily, in fact. Around midnight.”

“That’s good to hear.”

The manager handed him a key. “Floor seven, room nine. Would like help with your bags, sir?”

“No thank you, but could you send up a burger? Rare, mustard. Oh, and fries.”

The manger wrote it down. “And to drink, sir?”

“A nice Pinot. Mid-range. I’ll leave that to your discretion.”

“Of course, sir. I have one in mind. It’ll be up up in half an hour.”

“Thank you.”

<><><>

A half-eaten meal lay on a plate on the desk. A briefcase lay open on the bed. Next to it sat Steve, oiling and cleaning a pistol. He checked his watch, then screwed a suppressor onto the gun, sticking it in his waistband. He flicked off the light, and left.

<><><>

Outside a high-scale night club, a line snaked around the block. Young men in suits, and women in almost non-existent dresses laughed and flirted with each other.

Steve cut to the front, where a tall, muscular man controlled entry, the guest list glowing from his tablet.

“Name?”

Steve handed him $300. “Guest.”

The bouncer pocketed the bills and lifted the velvet rope. “Welcome to the Clairvoyant.”

The lobby is modest, but well appointed. A metal detector waits at the end of the room. Steve drops to a knee, pretending to tie his shoe, shoving his pistol deep into the soil of a potted plant. He rose, and continued past the checkpoint.

The noise was deafening as Steve entered into a two-story room. Bodies gyrated on the dance floor as VIPs watched from private tables on a balcony. Steve watched them for a bit before flagging down the bartender.

“What can I get you?”

Steve motioned upwards, handing him $500. “A table.”

The bartender studied him for a moment, before turning. “This way.” The man handed $100 each to the goons guarding the stair, then, once they were up, another $200 to the waitress, keeping $100 for himself. Steve followed the waitress to a table with a perfect view of both levels.

“Will this do?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The waitress nodded. “Anything else?”

“Single-malt scotch whiskey, Irish if you’ve got it.”

The waitress nodded and turned to fulfill his order.

Steve sipped his drink, eyes roving over the club, narrowing as they spotted Sunil Bakshi. He stood, following him as he slouched into a bathroom. As the man entered a stall, Steve shoved his razor in the door, jamming it and snapping the end off.

One of the bodyguards turned, only to be sliced across the throat, bleeding out as he clutched his neck. The other managed to produce a pistol, and fired a round at Steve. The bullet punched through his shoulder, but it didn’t stop Steve from crushing his windpipe.

Inside the stall, Bakshi froze, struggling to pull his own gun from his jacket. Finally, he slammed open the stall door, only for his gun to be slapped out of his hand and his face slammed into the toilet. Steve held him there for a few moments, before letting him up. The man’s eyes were wild, sobriety having swiftly returned.

“What the fu-“ he managed to choke out before Steve’s fist slammed into his nose.

“My name is Steve Rogers. You stole my car, you killed my dog. Where is Grant Ward.”

“Fuck you, old m-“ Bakshi’s reply was cut short by his screamed pain as Steve snapped his fingers. “GARRETT, HE’S WITH HIS FATHER! Please, he’s with Garrett, let me go!”

“And where is Garrett?”

“H-he moves around. Wherever Garrett goes, so does Grant...”

“Where is Garrett?”

“I don’t know. Please, let me go,” he sobbed. “Just let me go...”

Steve snapped his neck. He removed Bakshi’s wallet and phone, and left.

As he exited the building, he found Ward’s number on Bakshi’s phone, and called it.

<><><>

Grant Ward picked up the phone, recognizing the caller ID.

“Hey, Sun.”

There was a long pause, and then: “ _Bakshi is dead_. ”

Ward sat bolt upright, eyes wide.

“ _ As for the car, I got that back, but my dog? Now, Ward, I have to ask, are you Christian? ‘Cause I’m taking a page from Exodus this time. An eye for an eye. Actually, better yet, Genesis. Adah and Zillah, hear my voice. Wives of Lamech, listen to my speech. For I have killed a man for wounding me, even a young man for hurting me. If Cain shall be avenged sevenfold, then Lamech shall be avenged seventy-sevenfold. _ ”

Ward swallowed hard.

“ _Pray to your god, Grant Ward. Because the Devil is coming._ ”

The line went dead, and a single tear rolled down Ward’s cheek.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long wait guys! I’ve been quite ill for awhile, and just haven’t felt the motivation to write.
> 
> Have a Christmas Gift, and I’ll try to have less time between chapters! But no promises! ;)

Coulson looked up at the sound of the door, only to see Steve Rogers stride angrily in, covered in blood and about to faint. His blank mask unfailing, Coulson looked him up and down.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Evening. Is Dr. Banner in?”

“Yes sir. 24/7, sir.”

“Send him up please. And, uh, how good is your laundry?”

“The best, sir, but, well, no one is that good...”

Steve smiled, and slid Coulson a coin.

“I thought not. Send me a beer please? Anything cold.”

“Of course, sir.”

<><><>

Steve grit his teeth as Dr. Banner carefully pried apart the wound, removing the bullet, and dropping it in a glass of water.

“Did she splinter?”

Banner looked up. “Lucky for you, no. Seems it was sub-sonic.”

He cleaned the wound and sewed it up.

Steve shifted. “So, um, what kind of movement am I looking at?”

“If you’re looking to heal quickly, keep it marginal. However, if you’ve still got some... business, take two of these beforehand.” Banner handed him a pill container. “You will rip it, you will bleed, all my hard work will go down the drain, but you will have full function.”

Steve palmed him two gold coins. “Thanks, Bruce.”

“It’s what I do. Evening, Steve.”

<><><>

Steve quietly stalked through the kitchen, projecting an air of quiet confidence despite the pain in his shoulder. The staff paid him little mind as he made his way to the cellar, then down a short stair, along a brick corridor, and ended at a heavy iron door.

He removed another coin from his pocket and slipped it into the slit to the right of the door. A small section of the door slid open, revealing a pair of brown eyes. The voice was suspicious.

“I don’t know you.”

Steve paused a moment. “Maybe, but I know this place.”

A beat, then the door opened to show that the eyes belonged to a tall, dark-skinned, muscular man. Steve slipped through, and the bouncer shut the door tight behind him. The room beyond the door was a well-appointed foyer. A coat rack with several jackets and hats stood to the left, and to the right was a row of what appeared to be safety deposit boxes. The bouncer turned back to Steve.

“You carrying?”

Steve flicked out his wrist, handing the straight razor to the man.

“You got a name?”

“Steve. Steve Rogers.”

The bouncer did a double take, eyes widening. He turned to the safety deposit boxes and put the razor in the one marked S. Rogers, locking it afterwards.

Steve removed his jacket.

“What about you? You have a name?”

“My friends call me Mack.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mack.”

“You as well, sir.”

<><><>

Steve pushed past the velvet drapes. The room beyond was crafted from an old speakeasy. Cozy, but not too tight. On the left, a well-worn stage was occupied by Yo-Yo, singing an old Colombian tune. Her eyes widened when she saw him, but she didn’t falter.

He made his way through the room, greeting friends, and clapping backs. A few in particular caught his eye.

“Stan, looking great!” The man in question looked around confusedly.

“Dernier! You fox!” A man looked up from the two young women on his lap.

Gradually, Steve made his way to a booth at the end, occupied already by a black man with an eyepatch over his right eye. He wore a leather trench-coat, and had a glass of scotch in his hand.

“Nick.”

The man looked up, but Steve knew he had known about him the second he entered. The piece in his ear matched the one in Mack’s and Yo-Yo’s.

“Steve. It’s been a long time.”

“I’m glad to see the place is still up and running.”

Nicholas Fury half-smiled. “I could say the same for you.”

Steve smirked at that, and turned to the bar.

The man behind the bar turned around and:

“Holy. Shit. Steve Rogers, is that you?”

Steve smiled. “Erskine, you’re still here?”

“You know me Steve. I’ve never left.” His face darkens. “You know, we’re all still broken up about Peggy. She was a great woman.”

“She got the card, the flowers. She knows you, all of you, love her. Thanks Erskine. It meant a lot to me as well.”

Erskine wiped his eyes. “Alright, what can I get ya?”

“I’d love a martini.”

“Some of that Asgardian stuff?”

Steve chuckled. “You know me too well.”

<><><>

Across the room, young, beautiful Kara Lynn Palamas snapped pictures. She sent them to an anonymous number, along with a text.

[ _ Is this him? _ ]

The answer is immediate.

[ _ Yes. Where are you? _ ]

[ _ The Triskelion. _ ]

[ _ We are unwilling to engage on the premises. _ ]

[ _ I’m ready to take that risk. _ ]

[ _ If you fail, we disavow. If you succeed, the rewards will be great. _ ]

Kara smiled, then tucked the phone into her purse.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it’s been a while, my lovelies, and I’m sorry. I won’t offer excuses, but I will try to be quicker in the future.

Steve walked down the hall towards his room, more than a little tipsy. He fumbled for his keycard, swiping it and stumbling to his bed, falling asleep almost immediately.

<><><>

Sometime later, Clint peers down the scope of his sniper rifle, sighting Steve lying asleep in bed. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, swinging the rifle up to look around. The door of Steve’s room opened quietly, and a young woman slipped in, a suppressed pistol in her grasp.

Clint swung back to Steve, seeing him still asleep. He cocked the rifle, and fired.

<><><>

Steve bolted awake as a bullet slammed into the pillow beside his head. He immediately rolled off the bed, putting it between himself and the window. He caught sight of a woman in the reflection from the window. He ducked and spun, his leg snapping out and tripping her. She rolled over, jumping on top of him, pistol laying forgotten to the side. He struggled as her hands pressed on his throat, before he managed to kick her off. She went flying out the door, flipping over and landing on her feet.

Steve grabbed the pistol, pointing it at her, and she hesitated, then knelt, hands above her head. 

“Do you know where Garrett is?”

“N-no.”

“What about Ward?”

“No.”

“Do you know anything important?”

“I-I don-“

Steve cocked the gun.

“Wait! Li-little Russia! The-there’s a bank there! It’s where Garrett keeps his money!”

“Thank you.”

Steve strode over, striking her with the butt of the pistol.

*_click_*

“Do I know you?”

Steve slowly stood, hands in the air.

“You probably do.” He turned around, coming face to face with a man in his 60s.

“Jarvis.”

He lowered the gun. “Oh, it’s you.” He started to turn back to his room.

“Hey, Jarvis, would you mind watching this one? At least for the next six hours or so?”

“Catch and release?”

“Catch and release.”

“Alright. Goodnight, Steve.”

Steve slowly walked into his bedroom, just as the hotel phone rang.

“Mr. Rogers? We’ve had a lot of noise complaints from your floor. Anything we need to know about?”

“Nothing important, I’m going to bed now.”

“Very good, sir.”

<><><>

Steve leaned on the railing of the bridge, looking out on the water.

“You gonna put a bullet in my back, Clint?”

Clint holstered the pistol, and stepped out of the shadows.

“You owe me, Steve.”

“Been a long time, Clint. Why’d you take the job?”

“‘Cause if I hadn’t, it’d have been someone who’d’ve shot you just now, and left you to die alone.”

“Much appreciated then. God, Clint, what am I doing?”

“You’re doing what you feel needs to be done. Goodnight Steve.”

Steve exhaled. “Goodnight, Clint.” The man had already left.

<><><>

A limousine pulled up in front of a popular corner diner. John Garrett stepped out, straightening his tie. He walked inside and sat down, opposite Steve. Under the table was a pistol. Garrett could feel it poking his leg.

“Come now, Steve, is this really necessary?”

Steve sipped his coffee.

“Alright then.”

Steve said nothing.

“Steve, it’s been what, 10 years?”

“That’s right.”

“Left the game, settled down, got married. I envy that.”

He paused, then leaned forward.

“Kids?”

“No. We tried, but, well, wasn’t in the cards.”

“Lucky bastard. I fucked a bartender one time, and nine months later, got a piece of shit dumped on my door. But... when it comes down to it, he’s still my son, you know? Funny how one would both die and kill for something they didn’t love.”

“Imagine what they’d do if they did.”

“Have a good day, Steve.”

Garrett left, sitting down in his limousine. Four men, armed to the teeth looked at him. Garrett rubbed his brow.

“Kill him.”

_ Crack _

A bullet pieced the skull of one of the men. Garrett ducked down. The other men tried to return fire, but Steve was a crack shot. Another gunman died, and one was shot through the shoulder, screaming in pain as he went down. Finally, the limo lurched to life, pulling away from the curb.

Garrett sighed, looking at the ceiling.

“People don’t change, Steve.”

“ _Aaaahhhrgghh_! ”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.”


End file.
